


Tyger Tyger on the Wall

by bistourylove



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Blow Job, Breathplay, D/s, Established Relationship, I honestly suck at tagging, M/M, Orgasm Control, Romanian language- briefly, SSC, criminals in love, gaelic, mormor, probably missed something, violent fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-19 19:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1481839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bistourylove/pseuds/bistourylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moran is Jim's tyger and Jim knows how to love him best- give him people to kill and maim and fuck him senseless. <br/>Descriptions of sniping, beating, BDSM, and fabulous sex.<br/>Totally honest, very little plot- who needs it when you've got MorMor. </p>
<p>Inspired by this lovely gif set:<br/>http://cayya.tumblr.com/post/75815196629/tyger-tyger-on-the-wall-jimmy-loves-you-after-all</p>
<p>This one is for you Cayya</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tyger Tyger on the Wall

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have an editor so I did my best.  
> Comments always welcome, hope you enjoy!  
> Send me prompts/ headcannons if you'd like me to write something specific.  
> Thanks,   
> lots of love!

In the early morning, the rest of the world is still sleeping. Sebastian walks quietly on rooftops. No one but the birds know he’s up here and that’s exactly how he needs it. The sun is just peaking over the buildings at 6:03am and the air is still and biting in the shade. He finds his position on the ledge, kneels and takes his bag off his shoulder. He removes his weapon, L115A3, and caresses it with his calloused fingers. Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He goes to his belly, flush with the ground save for the perch of his elbows. He doesn’t need a tripod or any other steady safe, his aim has never been in question. It is innate, natural, a talent best used for this purpose. His target is almost two kilcks away,  not even the longest shot he’s ever made, asleep in his bed, next to his mistress in a bolthole- none the wiser. Breathe in, breathe out, pull the trigger. Job done. The mistress doesn’t even stir next to her now dead patron. He smirks, thinking about what will happen when she wakes up, how she will try to explain it all away. Sebastian relaxes, taut muscle goes fluid. Packs up, begins his walk back to Kensington Palace Gardens. He rewards himself for a job well done with a cigarette, never has one before a job- the nicotine is a vasoconstrictor, raises blood pressure, changes his breathing. But, after he is finished he can give into his vices, which he plans to do in abundance.

The sun is actually out and shining radiantly by the time he gets to the condominium he calls home. He doesn’t own a damned thing in the domicile, even his clothing was purchased on a business budget and he rarely got a say in it. He did however insist on 501s and comfortable t-shirts for his work. His shooting jacket is the only thing he had from his previous life, a remnant of his time before Moriarty. It is well worn, the elbows threadbare, but he won’t bin it, even at Moriarty's behest.  He looks oddly out of place in front of rows of stark white millionaire’s homes before he ducts inside his own.

As he walks into the foyer he half expects to find Jim drinking tea in his dressing gown sprawled across the settee or to find him asleep, or maybe to not find him at all.  Instead he is bombarded by the sound of angry yelling in Romanian- _he thinks_. He walks slowly  into the study, following the sound of Jim’s voice.

Jim is on a bluetooth pacing the room hurriedly, wearing a line in the carpet. His tea is sloshing back and forth in it’s mug, somehow not spilling over. Jim is on a tear, not that Sebastian speaks the language, but that tone of voice in any dialect belies an oncoming storm. It’s only 6:45 in the morning but Jim is dressed to the nines, he rarely does business out of one of his beloved suits even if he’s alone and unseen.

“Te voi jupui!” Jim spits venomously

Jim turns to notice Sebastian for the first time since he walked in, he is leaning on the wainscotting, rifle bag still on his shoulder. Jim’s mouth curls into a sly smile. He doesn’t even bother to say goodbye, just ends the call and tosses the earpiece across the room.

“Sebby, morning love, how’d it go?”

“How’d d’ya think it went Boss?”

“Fabulous.” he holds out his hand, extended to beckon his sniper to his side. Sebastian take the welcome, wraps his fingers around Jim’s and pulls him into his personal space. Jim tilts his face up and Sebastian takes his lips into a rough mouthed kiss, his teeth gnashing playful at Jim’s lower lip. Their breathing synchronises as their chests rise and fall together. Sebastian wraps his arm around the small of Jim’s back, bunching his Kilgore and melding their frames together. Just as quickly as it begins it ends.

“Mmmm you smell like GSR and cigarettes” Jim swoons

“Just the way you like”

“Tea?” Jim inquires

“Absolutely.”

“It’s in the library.” Jim says settling down into his leather wingback, making no effort to serve the tea offered whatsoever.

Sebastian makes his way through the side door and over to the tea trolley. He measures out his tea in a strainer over a marylebone cup, goes to grab the teapot and looks up momentarily.

“Jimmy,” he calls out “what’s this then?”

“Don’t call me Jimmy. Like it?”Jim asks knowingly, only half teasing about the nickname

Sebastian takes in the art before him, a tiger walking majestically, while he pours the water.

“I do. Where’d you get it? And why?”

“Saw it at Sotheby’s, thought of you.”

“Christ, how much is it worth?”

“Probably eighty of your sloppy suits. A bargain.” Jim wraps his arms around Sebastian’s waist and presses his forehead in between shoulder blades.

“But,” Moran starts

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.” Jim squeezes quickly then lets go, strolling to a shelves of books nearby and sing songs “Tyger, Tyger on the wall, Daddy loves you after all.”

Sebastian drinks his tea and hums appreciatively in agreement.

“I’ve got some work for you, wanna get your hands dirty?”

“Anything for you Daddy.” the moniker is sentimental in a peculiar way and Sebastian only uses it because he knows how thoroughly it ruffles Jim’s feathers.

“Come on then, off to Southwark.” Jim pecks his sniper on the cheek and then pivots to leave. He is down the stairs and out the door before Sebastian has time to finish his cuppa. Jim has never been good about giving him time to do what ordinary humans need to do whether it be eat, drink, sleep - all of it runs on Moriarty’s chaotic timetable. On his way out Sebastian stops off at his room to grab a tightly packed black canvas bag, he’ll need this and not his rifle for the task at hand. After all the wet work he completed in Italy, this is a lovely change of pace.

When he steps out to the kerb a sleek black Jaguar XKR-S is idling with the door open, Jim already inside, waiting impatiently, tapping at his smartphone screen. Sebastian siddles in alongside him in the back seat. He shuts the door and taps the glass partition to signal the driver forward. Seconds later the car lurches forward and then navigates the streets smoothly.

Without making eye contact Jim deftly hands Sebastian a roll of velpeau and Sebastian  takes it as a signal to wrap his hands. As Seb begins on his right, Jim rests his hand easily on his sniper’s upper right thigh, toying with the wrinkles in the denim while he stares out the window absentmindedly. Sebastian flexes his hands under their restraints, satisfied with their protection. He sighs, leans over and kisses an exposed swath of skin on Jim’s neck. Jim smells like topakapi and PG Tips, Jim smells like home.

“Bleeding, fractured or broken, love?”

“Not sure yet, we’ll see how he cooperates eh?”

“Oh, alright.” he nuzzles further into the smaller Irishman’s neck

“Eager darling? You know what that does to me Bastian.” Jim’s hand dips between Moran’s legs to squeeze tentatively at the muscle under his fingertips.

This was their foreplay, impending violence inflicted on others would later feed into the damage they’d do to each other. It was their romance, maiming others and doing it together was akin to any other couple going on a Sunday picnic. It was oddly playful, narrowly walking the line between psychotic and saccharine.

Moriarty enters the warehouse first, a power statement, standing at a frail looking 1.8 metres he enters the room like he owns it. Moran walks three paces behind him, swaggering in at a staggering 2 plus metres of ashy blonde and scars. He is clearly the enforcement of Moriarty’s will, an attachment to the power Jim garners on his own. Together they take the air out of any space they enter and replace it with fear.

After a few minutes of pidgin, a mix of English and Romanian loanwords, Jim’s eyes Sebastian to join the conversation in his own tongue. He wrestles the offending man  into a chair and binds him with practiced precision. Jim continues talking, vacillating between his native Irish lilt and his maniacal American persona. After a pause in Jim’s monologue the captive makes no response, where clearly one was required, Sebastian strikes him with a left hook that sends saliva and blood across the concrete below. The man looks up defiantly and Sebastian counters the first blow with one from the right. Jim smiles. This goes on for close to an hour, the dance between the three of them leaves the man in the chair luling, drooling blood in long sticky rivulets. His zygomatic process crushed inward, nose askew from it’s original central placement. Sebastian has the urge to kill this man, but this meeting was meant to be his first warning and not his last.

“Acum stii pentru data viitoare.” Jim concludes the meeting cooly, still looking like perfection in his bespoke suit as he winks at Sebastian to untie the client; which Sebastian does before faithfully returning to  his rightful place at Jim’s side.

While walking back to their car Sebastian runs a hand through his exertion mussed hair, pushing his fringe back only to have it fall again across his eyes. He doesn’t mind the streak of blood the tape leaves behind in his hair, knows Jim doesn’t mind it either. Jim giggles a little watching his Tyger in his peripherals, he looks done in but wound up and hungry. It’s always the best way to ensure Sebastian will be up for sex, give him practice, a nameless body to take out all his aggressions. They drive to a different residence from the morning, this one on Bishop’s Avenue in East Finchley, Jim owns several properties and doesn’t like to stay in one place too long; not necessarily out of paranoia as much as out of frenetic energy and easy onset ennui with scenery. The ride back is filled with rough kisses fraught with power struggle between the two men, high off adrenaline; followed by harsh pulls from determined fingers in each others hair.

Once inside their home Jim signals the downstairs bell, a warning to his valet and other staff to stay out of the way for his privacy and their safety -  they all know what happened to the last man that walked in on Jim in the middle of congress.

Moran lifts the smaller man and wraps Jim’s legs around his waist before pressing him up against the nearest wall. Seb ruts up into Jim, thrusting while the plaster braces his lover. His hands dig their fingers into Jim’s buttocks moving him so their stiff pricks slide against one another through hateful broadcloth and denim. Their breathing is desperate and rarified between capturing each others mouths.

“Bedroom Tyger, now.” Jim says nipping at the sensitive skin just under Sebastian’s ear. Without effort he carries Jim still draped around him, up the stairs, allowing the criminal to bite and suck on his neck as they go, effectively marking his property.

Once in the bedroom he tosses Jim onto the mattress and starts to undress himself. Jim loses his tie and stares salaciously at his murderous lover . He smirks.

“I’d bet people think you top cos of your size.” he chuckles out toeing off his Grensons.

“Have they met you?” Sebastian questions pulling his t-shirt over his head.

“Mmm finish and kneel.”

Sebastian complies, landing on his knees, nude save for his tattoos and his scars from Malaysia that lend him his sobriquet. Jim approaches him in just a vest and trousers, barefoot, with his devilish eyes gleaming darkly. He runs his hand through Bastian’s straight, fine hair.

In situations like this there are certain commandments which have been trained into Sebastian. These rules were not laid out for him, or told to him in understanding tones. No, these guidelines were beaten into his hide, cut into his skin, taught through repetitive punishment rather than ever spoken aloud. Namely- speak only when spoken to, call Jim Daddy or Sir, do not move without permission, do not make eye contact, act with a sense of urgency when ordered and be thankful for what you get. Sebastian knew how to please Jim, to garner minimal punishment, but that was never his aim. What would be the point, if not to make delicious use of Jim’s inner sadist?

The criminal mastermind circled his hit man like a vulture would carrion, appraisingly. Sebastian looked up through half-lidded mawkishly innocent green eyes. He had speckles of the clients blood on him from earlier, without he could have feigned coy much better, but it made him all the much more beautiful. Moriarty met his eyes, boring into him with pools of black so wide that irises seemed an after thought. The gaze seems to last an eternity and then it is broken.

This little act of disobedience would not go unpunished. Jim walks away quietly to open the wardrobe in the left far corner of the room. He retrieves a long leather strap that chevrons at the end. Smiling, the leather curls around his left hand. He turns to face Sebastian once more, his back so nicely exposed to him. In a quick movement that seems barely enough to register, the leather lash is sent licking across the sniper’s back, leaving a in it’s pointed wake a cresting whealed line. Jim thrashes him again, the second stripe less than a centimeter away from the first. Sebastian isn’t the only one in the room with deadly aim. The second lash line welts and dehisces slowly, small dots of blood form along it’s path.

For any sane man the pain would be searing and bring tears to their eyes. But Sebastian is far from sane and he shivers and delights under the new burning sensation, sighs out in a purr and curls his lips into a weak smile.

Moriarty appears again in front of Sebastian, tilts his chin up with delicate fingers.

“Yes?” the question communicates several concepts at once

“Yes Daddy.”

“I want to hear you say it pet, make sure you still remember.”

“Naufragium”

“Such a smart little public school whore, aren’t we?”

Sebastian doesn’t respond, the insults do not garner reply. Jim grips Sebastian’s longer blonde hair on the top of his head, pulling Seb’s scalp and raising his posture.

“Good thing I like a bit of Eton Mess.” Jim’s voice is impossibly deep, rumbling with vibration that goes straight to Sebastian’s cock. Jim walks towards the bed, dragging  his sub behind him uncaringly. He sits on the edge of the mattress, legs splayed wide, and pulls Sebastian in to crowd between his thighs.

“C’mon haven’t got all day.” Jim presses Seb’s face in to the heat of his groin, the zipper pushes uncomfortably against Sebastian’s cheek, hard enough to leave an imprint. Sebastian makes to unzip Jim’s trousers, mouth watering with anticipation to see the pants underneath if there were any at all. A forceful punch assails the right side of his face, jarring against his eye socket.

“No hands” Jim states completely disinterested and cool

Seb nods and dips his face down to Jim’s flies to take the small metal tab between his teeth and begin the awkward task of undoing the fastening orally. It doesn’t help that Jim rocks his hips, stealing friction as Sebastian tries at it. Once the zip is down the slot clasp and button at the waistline are easier to approach. White briefs with a lime green waist elastic and matching piping greet Sebastian who thinks to himself “cocky bastard knows when he’s getting some”

Jim, who is not known for his patience, pushes down his pants and trousers and loses them at his ankles in a pile on the floor. In the same swift movement he forces Sebastian’s mouth onto his half-hard prick, in this state Sebastian at least can still breathe.He cannot resist playing with the weight on his tongue, the silky foreskin not yet taut, the musky taste of skin recalls high end soaps and Jim’s delicious natural notes. Jim presses Sebastian’s nose painfully into his pubic hair and the underlying bone.

As his arousal increases, the length of him fills out, slowly beginning to block off Seb’s airway, brushing up against the back of his throat.

A guttural moan stems from Jim’s throat as he sets punishing pace fucking Seb’s mouth, not allowing time for proper breathing, basking in the sickly wet noises. Sebastian closes his eyes and accepts the rough affection, enjoying being dehumanized , made into nothing more than a warm fuck toy. Jim stops in mid-motion, thrusting all the way to the back of Seb’s throat so that he is gagging and sputtering around the prick in his mouth. He looks sloppy, spit flowing down on either side of his mouth, face reddening from lack of oxygen. His lizard brain tells him to panic at the signal of the oncoming hypoxia, he wiggles under Jim’s grip in his hair but knows he won’t make it away. Jim laughs low in his throat and brings his right hand to Sebastian's face, first petting him and cooing

“Ahh Sebby” before sliding his fingers up to pinch his nose shut, adoring the wide look on his pet’s face.

For any other partner it might take less than a minute to blackout, Sebastian however, is old hat at breathplay; that’s what makes this so much fun. After forty-five seconds Sebastian’s lids begin to lower, after two minutes they are shut and just before the three minute mark Sebastian goes limp and Jim just lets him fall to the floor. He’ll only be out for a minute or so and Jim takes the time to securely cuff him and place a spreader bar between his ankles. He stands back to admire his prize as Sebastian stirs.

Bastian comes to feeling fuzzy and floating, he is instantly aware of the cold mahogany against his chest and face. When he makes to life himself he becomes aware of the metal biting into his wrists and then hears the clink of the bar against the floorboards.

“On the bed.” a command Jim knows Sebastian will struggle with. Moran groans and remains on the floor a few seconds more. Jim delivers a swift top-footed kick to his ribs knocking the air out of him.

“Now bitch, move!”

At this Sebastian worms to bring his knees up under his chest, he sits up unsteadily and forces himself awkwardly to his feet. The motion is somewhat akin to kicking out from under an obstruction. He hobbles to the bed and lays his chest on it and snakes his hips up  until he can gain purchase with his knees.  Jim’s cold stare is neither amused or impressed, he is simply observing the struggle.

Finally on the mattress, Sebastian positions himself with his arse in the air, resting his weight precariously on his chest and neck. The forced exposure is welcomed and frightening, knowing how intently Jim gazes upon him, his arsehole, his heavy hanging bollocks and his slowly engorging cock.

Jim approaches the bed, leans over and spits deliberately and directly on Sebastian’s face, allowing it to slide down and invade his nose and upper lip. He hums a bit, runs his tongue cheekily over his teeth and recollects his saliva. This time he spits across Bastian’s arsehole before circling it with his index finger.

His sniper squirms under the nudging, insistent and rough. Jim then forces two fingers into Sebastian’s mouth, swiping the pads across the bumpy surface of his tongue. Jim pushes in all the way to the back of Seb’s throat to find the thicker, gummy conglomeration of spit and mucus in the vestibule. Bastian gargles around the digits, supplying Jiim with more of what he wants. Both of them are panting now as Jim withdraws his fingers and without ceremony plunges them to the metacarpals in Bastian’s arse.  The bound man rucks against his lover’s fingers.

“So eager aren’t we?” Jim asks twisting his fingers “That’s right, my deadly Tyger is a filthy little slut isn’t he?” his mocking tone makes Bastian whimper in agreement and need. At this, Jim scissors open his fingers trapping the prostate between them and setting a torturously slow place of massage to the innervated numb within his pet.

Sebastian attempts to stifle an embarrassingly vulnerable moan, not wanting Jim to know how quickly he’d gone weak.

“No, don’t hold back,” Jim demands, halting his ministrations “Daddy wants a show bitch, let Daddy hear every sweet little sound he fucks out of you.” he resumed his movement.

Moran let go of his inhibition and wantonly cried out as fingertips harshly stroked along the centre of that tight bundle of nerves. Perfection.

Moriarty presses down, crooking his fingers and gliding them in long unrelenting strokes, Moran practically shouts. Jim reaches with his other hand to cup the swollen, neglected, plummy head of Seb’s prick to catch the ejaculate he was milking out of him.  He holds it under his nose and inhales the deep, dark, salty notes.

“Eat up, Tyger.” Jim offers his hand to Sebastian’s mouth.

He laps up his own come, humiliated but needing to please Jim at this point in the hope of getting off, he closes his eyes to feign callow at the experience.

“Now, Tyger, bae, now I’m going to plough this sweet arse of yours.” Jim grips him harshly

“Yes sir, thank you Daddy.” Bastian, not one for kowtowing, was actively thankful for the impending sensation.

Devious to his stature Jim’s manhood was lengthy and thick, much more an endowment that would have better matched his hired gun turned companion. Moran, still indentured to his bonds did his best to properly present, although his posture was found lacking Jim forgave him this in his momentary lust. Bastian could always be punished for it later, and without warning.

“Now, Tyger, what have you done lately that you deserve and more lube for this?”

“Unnggghh” he responded straining to form sentences, mind foggy with desire.

“Use your words pet.” Jim’s voice  denoted a playful cadence and he harshly slapped his leather lash across the lily white flesh of Sebastian’s arse.

“I made a proper mess of that berk for you”

“So you did. Well done too.” Jim reached for the medical grade lubricant on the bedside table. The surfactant fluid was cold on his burning flesh and Jim let drops of it smear across his now bared glans.

He didn’t bother lining himself up properly, or giving warning, it was always better if it was a bit of a surprise anyway. Fully seated against his melwing lover Jim stirred his hips, churning Moran’s over sensitive insides.

“Oh Daddy, please.”

The criminal began a hateful pace, withdrawing almost completely before forcing himself into Moran so that his stomach was affronted with bouncy buttocks.

The room was silent, save the panting moans and the slap of wet skin.

Now, normally Jim would draw this out for hours, edging them both to the brink of their sanities repeatedly before finally letting them spill messily over the edge. But, Sebastian had been in Milan for almost two weeks prior to this morning, and while Jim had indulged in other lovers in the mean time, no one compared to Bastian’s eager, hot body.

As selfish a man as he was, and he was, he always enjoyed bringing his partner off first. Some misplaced sense of propriety made him want to. He brought a hand from Sebastian’s hip, admiring the moon indentation his fingernails had left, to compress his pet’s windpipe; once more restricting his breath. He never stopped kicking his hips as he whispered into Bastian’s ear.

“You have to the count of ten to come, and if you don’t come when I get there I won’t let you come for a week.”

Sebastian keened under Moriarty, knowing full well that he would follow through and his words were not an idle threat.

“Aon,” Jim begins to count out in their native tongue. The sweetness of the syllable reminding them both that they share so much. Jim’s thrusts slow, become more concentrated, dragging across Seb’s prostate with intentional sensation now.

“dó, trí” rolling his  hips to force their joined undulation they both stutter and breathing is longer forgotten.

“ceathair, cúig”

“ah please, Daddy, harder” Seb makes the broken plea and is answered with a loss of air as Jim’s hand tightens his grasp. Sebastian’s vision starts to cloud with black dots as the oxygen depletes in his brain and his universe narrows to the sensation of Jim effortlessly taking him apart.

“sé, seacht”

There is nothing to do now, but bear down and give over to the electricity flowing through his body as the heat in his stomach moves down and begins a fiery burn at his sacrum. Sebastian’s eyes screw shut at the first tremors of his orgasm.

“Ocht,” Jim can feel his soldier tighten under him, the quavering of muscles beneath and around him, he is chasing his crisis as quickly as his lover’s “naoi”

Sebastian is so close it hurts, but he needs just a little more to make it over the edge

“deich.” that final number is what does it, his pavlovian response to this game sends Sebastian reeling, his come staining the sheets below him. He is silent, save for wheezing, which is all he can manage under Jim’s forceful hand.

“Such a good pet” Jim pants out between thrusts, one, two, four more and he empties himself into Sebastian’s arse. The flood or reward chemicals mixing with the heady feeling of power and mutating into that odd space where Jim really gives over into sentiment.

Sweat slicks the skin of Sebastian’s back where Jim runs fingers from scapula to coccyx, shushig his lover to calm his both their nerves.

They collapse into the high weave textiles on the bed, to hell with hygiene for now.  Exhausted from exertion and satisfied to share a bed again. Jim finally sleeps and Sebastian lies still next to him, measuring his breaths until his vigilance is overcome by oxytocin and he gives into rest as well.

They never, sleep for long, no rest for the wicked. But, in these quiet moments, no one would say this wasn’t love.

 

 


End file.
